by Thomas the Tame
Note: This is without a doubt one of my favorite TF scenes of all time. I thought it lost for years until someone helped figure out that it’s a “Medallion of Zulo” story from fictionmania.tv!
I’m reposting my favorite section here with some minor edits for Tumblr. The full story contains gender-swapping, but this part focuses on mostly consensual age-regression.
The door whipped open from the inside, pulling the keys from Chris’s hands. He smiled to greet his wife, but was stopped cold by an unfamiliar face.
“Hello. You must be Mrs. Hartley’s husband.”
She was young, very young, too young, too damn young to be so pretty, with that pert cheerleader nose, and blonde hair that hung loose over her shoulders, around her face, and only seemed to find sexier and sexier ways of messing up itself. His next glance–done before he could help himself- -shot straight down her tank top. Oh god, creamy white breasts, small and perky, nipples as upturned as that sorority girl nose of hers. Who was she and how could he get rid of her before his dick jumped out of his pants and into her–
“Where’s, uh, my wife?”
The girl backed away. It didn’t help. Her tank top was short, and her smooth white belly peeked out and winked at him. He swore that little “inney” of hers was teasing him. Everything about this girl was a tease; she couldn’t help herself; her body seemed designed for it. Her bra was black he noticed; the straps were not very well concealed. The sprinkles of freckles that ran up and down her arms (like sensual constellations) made him lose track of his thoughts.
” . . . back in a few hours. She said I could hang out here until she got back. That’s okay . . . isn’t it?”
“Uh, yeah, I guess so.” He dug in his pocket for his cell phone and dialed Marissa.
The girl crept closer, her small hand pushing down his wrist to view the phone screen. “How come you’re calling her?”
“I want to know why her car is still here.”
“Her friend Helena drove.”
He left a short message on Marissa’s voice mail, hung up, and eyed the girl. “What was your name again?”
“I didn’t say,” she grinned. Her eyes twinkled. Her nose crinkled. She looked like a little devil. He could imagine . . . well . . . .
“What is your name?”
His stern tone made her flinch. Her grin fell away. She wore the expression of an admonished child. Her eyes flitted up into his, noticed the disapproval, and flitted down. “Sandy.”
“Well, fine, Sandy. You can stay and watch TV or whatever you like, but I have some work to do upstairs.”
Manipulative little–what was she thinking? He had to get a hold on himself. She was just a kid. Maybe she knew the effect she was having on him and maybe she didn’t. Maybe she was doing it on purpose and maybe she wasn’t. She reminded him of Sarah, his first crush, cheerleader, bouncy, sexy, and wanting nothing to do with a little twerp like him.
He was none too happy with Marissa either, leaving some teenage girl alone with him in the house.
He was halfway up the stairs before Sandy called out to him. And it was “Chris!” not “Mr. Hartley!”
He turned and chastised her. “Excuse me?”
“Your wife left this for you. She said it was urgent.”
He took the envelope from her and started to tear it open, but she was still standing there, a step below, peering up at him, her large soulful eyes twinkling like an eager puppy. Was it his imagination or was there just the hint of a smirk on those glossy pink lips of hers?
God, her whole face, her whole body, had that healthy, vibrant flushed glow. So young. So very, very young.
“Something else?” he asked.
She slipped up beside him, uncomfortably close, gazed up at him. “I wanted to apologize. I shouldn’t have just jumped out at you like that at the door. I just didn’t want you to come in and, y’know, be startled that some strange girl was in your house.”
His heart was like a clutching fist in his chest. His throat felt thick, his face warm, knees weak. He knew he should back away, but the part of him that wanted her won out.
“That’s okay. I’m sure you didn’t mean it.”
She wrapped her thin freckled arms around him. He timidly patted her back. She snuggled closer, squirming deliciously. He could feel her erect nipples through her bra, through her thin shirt, through his dress shirt and undershirt, rubbing against his abdomen. He hoped it was his imagination.
She lifted her chin as if expecting a kiss, and locked eyes with him.
He swallowed, felt his breath go shallow, felt the terrible, wonderful, aching hardness of his erection stretching, and slowly, so slowly it killed him, unwound her arms.
Without a word, he went upstairs, flustered, more angry at Marissa than ever. And angry at himself, at his dick for responding, at God for designing him that way, at Sandy for–for–for being so confused and for tempting him.
He ripped open the letter, thinking, This better be good.
There was an electric jolt that he put down to static shock, then the medallion began to warm his hand. He stared at it, dumbfounded. This was just bizarre. And he was in no mood either, but it was interesting, fake, of course, by the feel of it. How could Marissa think it was anything of value?
It wasn’t plastic, but it wasn’t stone or metal or wood either. He couldn’t quite identify it. One side was worn almost smooth, and he could just make out some writing. At first he thought it was runes, but then it appeared to be Arabic, then again, hieroglyphics. Hell, it could’ve been a parade of ducks for all he could tell.
His whole arm was warm now. He moved from the bathroom to the bedroom, and blamed the skylight. There was a strange ticklish-tingly feeling too. He scratched his arm idly, thinking offhand that his skin felt too smooth.
On the other side of the coin he spotted Lady Liberty. No, but close, some sort of figure, female he thought. She was holding something, not a torch though. It was, perhaps, a wand, and there was the slightest impression of wings, but they were almost entirely worn away.
He scratched his arm again. The warmth had spread to his shoulder, to his neck, and was unkinking a bothersome muscle. One cheek was growing hot. He touched it. By this time in the evening there was usually some stubble.
Then he saw his arm.
It was thin and hairless. It was the arm of a teenager, not a grown man. He gasped, dropped the medallion, and backed into someone. He turned and saw Sandy.
“Don’t worry. It’s reversible. It takes twelve hours though.” The rules were coming to her. With every contact, she seemed to understand more about how it worked.
“I thought I told you to stay downstairs.”
“Don’t tell me–“
“It’s me. Marissa.”
“I want you gone. Do you understand?”
“Gone. Call your parents. I want you out of my house, young lady.”
“Ooh,” Sandy gasped and pressed a hand against her chest. She touched her blushing cheeks, felt her hot forehead, felt the shame coursing through her. “God, when you use that tone–” She laughed.
“I’m not kidding.”
“I know. I know you’re not. But just relax. Okay? The medallion is magic or something. I don’t know how, but it can change you.”
“I’m calling my wife.” He found his suit jacket on the bed and dug the cell phone from his pocket.
Sandy launched into a long list of facts that only Marissa could’ve known.
Chris stared at her. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Look at your hand, teddy bear.”
Everything about the way she said it sounded like his wife, but it wasn’t. Still, his arm, his hand…
She found the medallion on the bed, held it by its chain, and dropped it into his hand. “Just hold it for a bit and you’ll see.”
There was that electric shock again, followed by the hot creepy-crawlies. His skin itched a little, but not unbearably. The heat sank deeper, and he actually saw his other hand changing, growing smaller. He started to throw the medallion away, but Sandy wrapped her hand around his. She whispered, “It doesn’t hurt. You’ll see. And you’ll be amazed. It’s incredible. Look at me, teddy bear. See? Now you can have your fantasy. Don’t you remember telling me how much you wanted to be with that cheerleader? Well, now you can be eighteen again, and I’ll be her. I even have a uniform, pom-poms and all, and we can rewrite history for you, and fulfill our deepest fantasies.”
“I can’t believe it,” Chris’s small voice gasped.
“I found that old baseball cap of yours in the attic,” Marissa explained. “Now you look exactly like you did when you were eighteen.”
“This is . . . unbelievable.”
He stared at the medallion again, almost laughing. “Where-“
“It doesn’t matter.”
“But are you sure it’s safe?” he worried.
She wanted to kiss him, but restrained herself. “Wait here. I’m going to change.”
“What do you mean?”
She couldn’t help it. She launched herself into his eighteen year-old arms, feeling every bit of her teen year old body wriggling against him. She planted a kiss on his mouth, pressed it deeper until his lips parted and their tongues met. His arms encircled her, squeezing her almost to breathlessness. Gently, with a mind of their own, his hands began to fall.
She pulled away, wet lips smirking. She gave him another quick, hot kiss. He lunged at her, but she pushed him away.
“Nuh-uh! You have to wait.”
“What? Why? I mean, what in the hell is going on?”
She scampered away.
He turned to the mirror and felt an erection like he hadn’t felt in years. God, it was rock hard. And it was alive and incredibly sensitive. It was like it had never been touched before. Jesus, he was probably a virgin, sort of, maybe. Could you be a virgin again? Could she?
When she bounced back into the room again, she went into a cartwheel and ended with a slow descent into a split. God, just the sight of her, the blue and white pleats of her skirt draped over her white thighs, her hair in a messy ponytail, dirty blonde strands in her eyes, cheeks flushed with exertion. She was white and pink and pert and perfect and teasing him mercilessly.
Her lips glistened with gloss. She’d framed her eyes with black mascara and softened and enlarged them with dark brown eye shadow. Her blonde eyebrows were plucked and highlighted with a luminous gold. Was it his imagination or had she even sprinkled glitter on her cheeks?
She got to her feet and bounced–breasts up when she was down, down when she was up–ponytail bobbing, tossing her pom-poms around, banging them together with whispery crashes, swish, swish, swish-swish-swish. “Hey . . . okay . . . ” She whipped her head to the side, thrust out a hip and pointed at him, leveling him with her eyes. “I want your dick today!”
He laughed and glanced down at the tent in his oversized pants. They fell away easily and his penis flipped up and pointed directly at her.
“Yo . . . your pole . . . ” She spread her legs and leaned over to give him a good shot down her uniform blouse. “I want it in my–Home is where the heart is! Your hard-on’s in your pants! I can tell you want me, but I want to see it dance!”
He rushed her. His eighteen year old body couldn’t stand it anymore. He had to have her . . . right now.